Two With One Blow
by Grav
Summary: Wars were lost and won on small deeds, as the War of the Ring had proved to all peoples of Middle Earth.


AN: I really adore the Rohirrim. This snippet comes from a few places, namely: the Movie, that story where a tailor kills seven flies with one blow and everyone thinks he killed seven giants with one blow, the fact that I am currently enamored with Old English in spite of a truly horrific prof, and the fact that Éomer is just so very awesome.

Disclaimer: So very much not mine.

Summary: Wars were lost and won on small deeds, as the War of the Ring had proved to all peoples of Middle Earth.

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**Two With One Blow**

The fire snapped in the Golden Hall, merrily leaping towards the ceiling. Sitting close to it, one can almost forget that the wind howls outside and the snow has almost reached the roof of the building itself. Lothíriel drew her cloak about her, not so much out of cold, but from the habit of hearing the wind outside the walls. The snow, despite her first instinct, actually made the Hall warmer, covering it in a thick blanket of white that allowed not the heat to escape between the well caulked and reinforced, yet eternally drafty planks. She had worried, upon leaving Dol Amroth, that she would suffer her kinswoman's fate; that she would waste away longing for the sea. But instead, Lothíriel had blossomed and grown and discovered another sort of ship in the horses her husband so proudly kept. The smells and sounds were not the same, but there was no mistaking the freedom.

She had loved Éomer deeply all the days she spent here. To have grown old with him, as her father had not with her own mother, was a gift she wished upon everyone she knew, and even those she did not. For to see him change, to feel the changes in herself, and still to wake every morning within arm's reach of him was the world to her.

It was slightly infuriating that, in his blondeness, he had merely lightened where her dark hair had turned as white as the snow that currently kept them all bound up in Meduseld. His face, however, showed years hers did not, weathered by early grief and much toil in the winning of peace. But for every line upon his brow she felt was caused by sorrow, there was another caused by joy and laughter and the voracity with which her adopted people embraced life itself.

He had told her stories of the dark years before the war. Of his powerlessness and his anger, of his fear and growing doubt. And of his final imprisonment beneath the Hall itself. Dark tales, they were, told beneath heavy blankets when there was no one else about to over hear. He would hold her as he spoke and when it all became too much, she would light the candle beside their bed to remind him that the dark had not lingered forever, and that he himself had helped to break it.

He told her other stories, stories of his uncle's last ride and of his first terrible ride as Lord of the Mark. These were never told inside the Hall itself, but rather when they were riding or walking, in the early days of their marriage when he was showing her the corners and nooks of her new land. She knew the legends, of course, but to hear them sung or told in the style of the Rohirrim was a truly different experience.

This night, however, the stories were not for her. Instead, they were directed to a group of small children, gathered about his knee. For this was the time they lived in, when men grew old and sat about the fire in their great halls and told stories to the children of their children.

"Ealdfæder, tell us one we have not heard before." one of the younglings said. The high-pitched voice and smoke made it difficult to determine which of the cluster of blonde and dark heads had given voice to the request, but it was quickly echoed.

"All of the stories of great honour have been heard before, my lytlings." Éomer's voice had lost nothing to age and his wife smiled in spite of herself. "Would you have me make one up?"

"Tell us of some deed of yours that seemed overmatched at the time, but is in truth remarkable." That voice belonged to Théowyn, the oldest of the second generation of the Lords of Meduseld. He took great pains to speak as an adult, even though he still ran about with his young cousins and siblings.

"Very well then, young lord." Éomer smiled at the boy. He then drew himself up in the Rohirric custom of story telling and began:

"The Great Battle was joined before the walls of the White City of Gondor. Already, the wrath of our kinsmen, who rode without fear of death itself, had broken the will of the foul orcs who sought to lay the city low with fire. They fled before our charge, their courage undone by the horns and the laughter and the singing of we who pursued them.

"The great King Théoden ordered us to make the city safe, when lo! Across the field there came the sound of new horns, unlike we had ever heard before. For they were of Southern animals, the like of which cannot survive the cold in our land. Hard sounded, quite different from our melodious challenge they were, speaking only of a promise of death with a kind of honour we did not understand."

He had the rapt attention of everyone in the room, now. Such was the gift of Rohan and the stories those of it could tell.

"The riders faltered, unsure, for through the dust kicked up by the fleeing orcs, we glimpsed creatures of impossible size. Taller than the tallest horse ever seen on this earth, taller even than the trees of Fangorn forest, the ground rumbling beneath them as it has never done, even before our own great charge.

"But the king never doubted and bid us to the line again and again we charged. The beasts had tusks made of the hardest bone and they used them to sweep rider and horse from the ground, flinging them high in the air. Their large feet trampled mercilessly on anything they could. Arrows could not stop them, for their hides were so thick that naught could pierce their flesh. Spears did little better, serving only to annoy them, and make their step even heavier upon the ground."

The children were barely breathing now, for fear the sound would make them miss something.

"I turned my horse and looked up, up to the top of the beast where, perched upon its back, there was a kind of saddle which bore many archers. In front of that stood the driver and I marveled, even as the beast bore down upon me, at the skill and balance that the men must possess to ride so high and unstable a carriage, and wreak so much havoc on the ground below.

"And then I saw its weakness. The driver controlled the animal by pulling at its ears. If I could spear the driver, the animal would be out of control."

The fire popped then and Éomer's voice was just low enough in cadence with his tale that the sound echoed loudly in the Hall. The children all jumped and quite a few of the men and women in the hall started too. Lothíriel hid a smile as the tale continued.

"The beast was close upon me now, and I was nearly overcome by its height. My war spear was heavy in my hand. It had been with me through many battles and now I would lose it, but I would not lose it in vain.

"I breathed deeply and with all the strength in my arm, I hurled the spear. It whistled in the air as it sped from me and I saw that my aim was true. I had caught the shoulder of the driver and put him off balance. He spun and fell, his hands still gripping the lead ropes of the beast he controlled.

"The beast screamed in pain as its ear tore, the noise beyond the scope of my hearing, yet still throbbing in my bones. The poor thing veered sharply to the side and crashed into one of its fellows sending all aboard both creatures plummeting to their dooms. The creatures themselves became hopelessly caught up in one another and kicked at each other until they both stilled."

Éomer paused to take a drink. This was also a traditional ploy of Rohirric tales, and Éomer played the moment better than most. There was complete silence while he wet his throat as his listeners waited desperately for the end of his tale.

"All around me, the battle raged. I shouted out to my companions how best to fell the creatures and others began to follow my lead. One after one, the mighty beasts fell and became still. The Undead had arrived with King Elessar and they too swarmed across the field, ridding it of all foe.

"And then at last, there was quiet. And the Battle of the Pelannor Fields, the Battle for Minas Tirith, had ended."

The silence in the Hall was reverent, for they all knew the part of the tale that Éomer had not told. How the king had died and how the White Lady had slain the Witchking, and how the Holbytlan had come to her aid. It was true, in light of such deeds, the slaying of the mûmakil seemed small. But wars were lost and won on small deeds, as the War of the Ring had proved to all peoples of Middle Earth.

Lothíriel stepped into the light beside the fire, bearing a cup to her lord and love and husband, in the oldest tradition of his own land.

"Hail Éomer, son of Éomund, Lord of the Mark." she said in a voice as clear as the sea.

"Hail!" said all assembled, raising their glasses.

Lothíriel smiled and held up the cup:

"Two with one blow!"

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**finis**

AN: For anyone who is still here, the children call Éomer "Old-Father" because I love the sound that "eald" makes when you say it and he calls them a diminutive form of "my darling" much like "liebling" in modern German.

GravityNotIncluded, November 13, 2006


End file.
